Editing post from this morning, at Hopper, 7:58. 

Be right back…  Writerfather moving moving—


Usually not this ahead of schedule.  Saved time by not showering, shaved off constriction of clock clunks.  Don’t worry, I’m not a-stench.  Eating my cinnamon-raisin bagel slow and sipping the 3-shotter, watching all the people around me but not hearing them.  Remembered my earphones, so Hutcherson’s mallets ease me as I wade into the day.  Thought earlier:  “If today is only for today, and tomorrow’s not guaranteed, then I’m getting everything I want, today.. how’s that?” Thought this pretty much as soon as I woke, to Alice putting Emma on me, Emma smiling even with her little sniffles and coughs, cold or whatever my little beat priestess has.  Keep thinking, how do I make today amazing, how do I make it different and unique, story-shifting?  Yesterday while in the office, the idea of a book kept coming to me, over and over till I realized, “Okay, enough is enough, these writings can’t just be let to rot away on the blog, so they won’t.” In choosing to be an adjunct, I set myself up for hardship, I get that now, depending on assignments and hoping for a full-time post (which now I’m pretty sure I don’t want anyway), and having to have outside work which doesn’t pay loads either to pay bills and feed babies, have some side cash for whatever I buy for myself anymore.  I guess music, right?  Maybe some wine?  Clothes occasionally?

Have to write my 500 word-er for the day in a bit, but it’s time for the writer to celebrate his early start, his getting out of the house this Friday morning with an unusual fluidity—  How did that happen?  I ask myself, and I don’t know.  Mother-in-law certainly helps.  In fact she’

s pretty much the only reason I’m here right now, sipping this mocha listening to Hutcherson and slowly biting a bagel, my favorite kind.

Then I think I should leave Hopper, and go to that parking lot by the dam and write, just down the Road from the winery.  No.. follow-through with plan, I tell myself.  This morning’s about more than just self-starting and motivating.. it’s about understanding what you want, self-understanding, and getting what you want, and what you really want is more a need than anything— if you don’t get what you need for wellness and happiness then you’re in a swamp of trouble.  And as I always say, I’m not preaching.. this is self-talk, self-instruction and realization.  I’m like Kerouac was in Sur but with more a yay-saying yaw to my diarist law.

This morning, assuring, assuring…  writing freely, finally, in a way I haven’t of late.  So… follow, though.  Through.  They’re bottling at the winery this morning, again, for the 2nd straight day, and I need to get some content… yesterday managed to get some shots, but from distance.  Didn’t want to get in their way, or interrupt anything, or interfere, disrupt, you know what I mean.  So much frenzy and fury putting the wine into those bottles, so hugged to a schedule, I didn’t want to get close at all, actually.

And my schedule this morning, is it a schedule?  A bit, I guess.  But I don’t want to obsess over the schedule’s reality and lean.  I control it, not it me.  I’m not running from or string-pulled by any tocsin, as the clock is the most foul of existential toxins.  People all around me looking at their phones, flipping from screen to screen with what little time they have.  Why?  Nothing else you can do with your time?  Sounds like I’m judging, and maybe I am, but Time and Life are so curt and sped, that every leap has to be made to appreciate the Now, the moment on plate—  I’m going to get what I want today.  And that’s a story.  A wine story.  From a winery.  What a day in that life is like, why people look to it for fantasy, why the images are so circulated in such an animated and magnetic fashion— they push it: paradise, paradise, PARADISE.  “This is god’s country,” a grower once said to me, like I was unaware where I lived.  “Yeah,” I thought, “I’m unaware, that’s what’s kept me here over 16 years.”

Running out of momentum and push, a bit, but I focus on the moment, on everything atop these two put-together tables, my current office.  The Creative with his ideas crawling all over him like famished ants.  Can’t believe how busy it is here, and how quick they got my mocha to me.  Usually they’re slow to an infuriating level, and I wind up cursing and questioning myself, “Why do I do this to myself?  Why the fuck am I here?  I’m never coming here again!” That kind of thing.  But, I don’t know why, but the Story’s being quite kind to me, everything so far, kind and gentle, encouraging and talkative; talking to me, telling me to keep writing, enjoy your writing, enjoy your day, today is ONLY for today, and tomorrow’s not planned.  In fact, there is no tomorrow—  Tomorrow’s only tomorrow when today is done, behind you.  So I have to live in this Now, the Now the Story has set, paginated for me.

Writerfather, more awake— looking at the pictures I took of Emma and little Kerouac this morn’…  My babies, growing faster than I’d like, of course, all parents understand that, right?  When Emma smiles, looks me directly in the eye and not moving that focus even for a nanosecond, not even to blink, I know my standards for self have to be angrily raised.  In my office, writing, under no thumb, only acting as I wish, selling my work, creating content for clients, for myself.. thinking of a new website idea, where words aren’t allowed.. only pictures and the same tags for the entire presence of the project.. this idea came to me yesterday while at the end of the office’d day.

Now to other work—  1,000 to contribute to lit wick.  The Story’s growing, and I see more.